Tag: Viking

It has become apparent that I need a Lady Sitter. With my best and wonderful friends so far away, it’s difficult to fit in long coffee sessions complete with laughter, tears and hugs. Something magical happens when women get together. They share their pain, making the heartache easier to bare. They share their anger and by doing so, rob it of its power. They share their joy, tossing it in the air so it settles like fairy dust on everyone’s shoulders. They share their humor, so laughter can chase away the darkness. And they share their wisdom because their experiences are different than your experiences and maybe that small spark of knowledge will transform your life. At the end of the day, every woman requires comfort that can only be found with other women.

And before anyone accuses me of sexism, let me just say that men probably need the same sort of thing but I’m a woman and have no deep knowledge of how men work beyond their stomach. It’s not my area of expertise. I can only guess that during long fishing trips or huddles on the sports field or in the deep recesses of Princess Auto or Home Depot, men confide in other men. Maybe that’s what Rugby is all about – one giant Man Hug and then beating each other to a pulp.

Perhaps The Viking has a microphone attached to the air compressor and while I’m in the house putting this post together he is pouring out his anxiety regarding my cooking. Maybe his frequent trips to the Parts Storage unit is a cover for a short but intense sharing of emotional trauma with some other guy that works from home and spends his entire life in his wife’s company. Or perhaps it’s an Osmosis kind of thing whereby they just stand in the general vicinity of each other and suddenly their mojo is brand new again. A King of the Hill sort of thing.

I bring all this up because I’ve found a thing that The Viking sucks at. That’s right…..Mr. I’m Right All The Fucking Time has an Achilles Heel. He’s not actually perfect. I realized this problem last weekend. We were having dinner out with friends and I had spent an hour and a half showering, applying make-up*, creating a hair masterpiece and pillaging my wardrobe for something to wear. When I was finally done, I was feeling a bit like Cinderella on her way to the Ball. I have lost a significant amount of weight and was hoping for a jaw drop or applause or a gentlemanly bow. What I got was……..nothing. Well, not quite nothing. He said, “You look fine”.

A girlfriend or a Lady Sitter would have squealed in delight, called me ‘Girlfriend’ and twirled me around to see every angle. They might offer a tweak here or there to maximize the affect. They most certainly wouldn’t have given me half a glance and a grunt.

But, I’m a self-contained woman; one who doesn’t need compliments because I usually give myself my own compliments, Victory Dances and High Fives. Unfortunately, it seems like I’ve burned through all my own self-congratulations and now find myself needing a compliment without anyone to give me one.

I understand that it’s not in The Viking’s character to hand out compliments, willy nilly, with complete abandon but, would it kill him to give me a “Great job, Babe!” or a “Wow! That was a fantastic dinner!” or even a “Way to not fall down in the hallway!”? Instead, I get “You’re going to burn it if you don’t turn down the heat” and “Don’t trip on that piece of litter in the hallway” and “Put that Box Cutter down right fucking now!” Sure, it’s all great advice, but they aren’t compliments.

It is his only fault though; well, that and his propensity to throw tools when he gets frustrated. Everything else about him exceeds my expectations. And this is where I thought a Lady Sitter would come in handy. I don’t need help with picking out drapes, but it would be awesome to have someone to go to the theater with, or a work-out pal, or a person to discuss Ancient Aliens with**. And it wouldn’t hurt if he liked to cooked and vacuumed, either.

The rational part of my brain said, “Any good Lady Sitter would be hideously expensive, and we don’t have that kind of money laying around”. With that being the case, maybe I could teach The Viking how to compliment me? That shouldn’t be too hard; I’m quite easy to please. Unfortunately, I’m a terrible teacher – just ask Mim about the ‘Math and Hair Brush Incident’.

So, I did what any rational person who is terrible at teaching would do. I visited The World Wide Web and found this:

And then I thought, I have a vibrator and now a Compliment Generator so if I find a reliable jar opener I may be an island unto myself. Hmmm…..that’s probably not true because The Viking:

changes the oil on my car

takes out the garbage

fixes everything that I break

cooks for me on Saturdays and if I accidentally pulls his pants down he’ll just keep on cooking with his pants around his ankles

he brings goodies home from the store

cleans the litter box (that on its own is worth keeping him around)

he sent me a dick pick once when he was away from home

eats all of the food I make even if it’s so bad I can’t eat it and

puts Band-Aids on my war wounds.

And now I feel ungrateful. There is no reason I can’t pause before leaving the house and look up a compliment for myself. I’m sure he would rather wait that couple of minutes if it means he doesn’t have to compromise his strict rules. It’s probably because compliments embarrass him and he assumes they will embarrass me as well, which is totally not the case.

What ever the reason, I still need a compliment once in a while so I’ll bookmark The Compliment Generator on Google and be happy with that. Really. I will be just fine with an impersonal, computer-generated compliment that has nothing to do with subject I needed a compliment for. Honest. It will be fine.

*I rarely wear make-up any more except for occasions because…..well, there’s no reason for it. The Viking just says “Why the fuck are you putting that shit on your face?”

**He doesn’t believe in Ancient Aliens! In fact, he starts howling like a deranged Malamute to express his utter disdain for the subject when he catches me watching one on my computer.

Mim’s getting married on the 23rd of this month which means only one thing – I am one step closer to a grandchild that I will spoil rotten.

I suppose it means more than just one thing to Mim, like love and joy and a flashy ring finger, but for me, it’s all about the babies.

Of course, I share her excitement and want to make her day wonderful. When it was time to buy shoes and jewelry, I was more than happy to make a day of it. She had already purchased her Gown which left only the little things.

She came to the house expecting me to be ready….but I wasn’t. I was 15 minutes away from being ready and it was entirely The Viking’s fault. I didn’t want to waste time explaining at that moment and put us even further behind, so I waited until we were in the car and on our way to meet the Maid of Honor.

Me: It wasn’t my fault I was late.

Mim: It’s okay, Mom. It’s no big deal.

Me: But I hate being late. The Viking decided to poop just before I needed to be in the shower.

Mim: I hate that!! Argh!

Me: Me, too!! And he claims that he didn’t plan on pooping at that time, but I think it’s an entire male gender conspiracy. They know.

Mim: Oh, they know. When poop smell meets water vapor it becomes a solid!

Me: Exactly! The poop particles are in the air and as soon as I turn the shower on it turns the dust poop back into solid/liquid form and I’m essentially showering in poop.

Mim: YES! That’s just so gross! How can you possibly feel clean when you’ve had to shower in poop?!

Me: I’ve tried to explain this to The Viking and he just goes “Pfft!”

Mim: Haha! That’s also the sound of farts! Coincidence? I think not.

Me: Hahaha!! The Viking has never had to take a poop shower. Because I’m a nice person!

Mim: I yell when it happens at home. I totally understand why you had to wait for the dust poop to get sucked up through the fan. It’s a good thing you have such a good fan or you would have had to wait for a lot longer.

Me: And that’s why you’re my best friend. You understand how Science works.

The day turned out to be wonderful and we found beautiful things for her. I don’t often get to spend time with Mim; she lives about 5 hours from me – a fact that I point out every time I talk to her. I’ve even tried to bribe her but, apparently, she loves living where she does and the thought of coming back to the city isn’t very appealing. So, I make due with the time we have.

In the meantime, I’ll need to have a conversation with The Viking about solids, liquids, and air particles. Because there is no way we can have a freshly baked Grandchild exposed to that kind of thing. Since our little house doesn’t have room for a special Poop Room, we might need to consider the facilities at the gas station on the corner.

The Viking is always getting visitors. They drop shit off and pick shit up and they all make me happy when they leave. I don’t like people invading my yard any more than I like other cats invading my yard but if they really feel the need to stop by the least they can do is leave their truck door open, or a window at a bare minimum. I’m short, you know, and getting into your vehicle isn’t always easy.

I bring this up now because I found the perfect Izzie-mobile. Lucky for me, the guy I am stealing it from spent a good amount of time talking with The Viking so I could do a long and thorough inspection. That’s the most important thing about getting a new vehicle – check it over carefully.

I like the color. It’s not pink but it’s attractive nonetheless.

That seat belt is a little high.

It has a rack to carry my litter box and cat tree – unlike that monstrosity The Viking drives.

Lots of leg room for my people.

Plenty of cargo space for my toys and food.

The side mirrors are in good order – I just need to reset them for my height.

Methinks I’m going to need a Booster Seat.

Hey! You! Hand over the keys so I can take it out for a test drive.

And then, in what I can only call a complete breakdown in communication, the guy takes the truck away!! What the hell were you thinking, Viking?! I wanted it and you just let him drive it away?

I was just getting over your betrayal with the neighbor’s cat and then you pull this shit?! How hard could it be to just put the guy on a bus?

What?! I’m not allowed to have a truck now? Is that what you’re saying to me?

Where’s Mom?! She’ll let me have a truck. Just you wait and see!

I put up with a lot of crap around here. Mim brings her damn cats here all the time and you won’t leave the water running so I can drink when I want and Teddy eats my food. You even tried to make me wear a sweater! I don’t do sweaters!

Look at me when I’m giving you the Stink Eye! If I had poo right now I would fling it at you.

Someone had better get that Treat Jug out.

I don’t know why I even put up with you. There seems to be no end to the atrocities. I’m calling PETA! Black Lives Matter, you know!

You think I’m going to ‘sitpretty’ anymore? I don’t bloody think so! I’m going for a nap and there had better be zero noise! You hear me? ZERO!

It’s harder to get married than I thought. It should have been easier given that I’ve been on that particular Merry-Go-Round before. Maybe it wasn’t as complicated back then. Or maybe expectations were lower at 19 than they are at 53. Or maybe it’s because I only had 10 days to pull it off this time. Or, most likely, life has kicked my ass a few times and now I’m a neurotic, stressed out, menopausal woman with a Perfection Complex.

As I was maniacally making notes and lists and finding out what was available and what wasn’t available, The Viking walked past and made an explosion sound that puffed his cheeks out. I whipped my head around and said, “What is that supposed to mean?!Is that the sound of all my hopes and dreams exploding in my face?! Because I don’t need the sound effects!”

For a moment his face was slack with confusion but then he started to laugh. “Relax, babe. It will be just fine. I can help you as soon as I’m done in the garage.”

It didn’t work, but I appreciated the attempt to soothe my fraying nerves. Mim and I brainstormed over a wedding cake and came up with this:

Unfortunately, Crave Cupcakes had the temerity to accept other orders before mine. Boom, Baby!

Everything else was coming together though. I had dishes, tablecloth, napkins, napkin rings, serving platters, flowers ordered, food order put in at the Danish store and a Commissioner of Marriage – Judy. She explained what I needed to know and what the most important thing I needed since I had been married before – the Judgement of my Divorce.

I found it almost immediately, surprising myself with my organization and filing skills. It said ‘Judgement of Divorce’ on it and there were several official stamps and dates. Two days before Erik & Annette (The Viking’s brother and beautiful Partner) arrived, The Viking and I went to the Registry to get our Marriage License.

We waited patiently in line then handed over our Identification and my Judgement of Divorce.

“Sorry. I need a Certificate of Divorce, not the Judgement.” The little girl behind the counter said firmly.

I said, “What?! The Commissioner said ‘Judgement of Divorce’.”

“You need a Certificate of Divorce.” She said slowly and more audibly.

“Are you saying I’m not Divorced?”

“Oh, you’re divorced for sure.”

“So why can’t I have a marriage license?”

“Because you need a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce.”

“What is a C..E..R..T..I..F..I..C..A..T..E of Divorce going to tell you that the actual Judgement doesn’t?”

“Nothing. But the law requires it.” Well, there’s no arguing with that, is there? I hate Smarty-Pants young people who pull facts and rules out when it’s most inconvenient.

“So where do I go to get this damned Certificate?!”

“Downtown at the Court of Queens Bench.” Boom, Baby!

“DOWNTOWN?!” I hate Downtown! It requires waiting for buses and then walking whole blocks and then waiting in lines, and then waiting for buses and walking whole blocks again.

Smarty-Pants nodded cheerfully and handed me my fucking useless Judgement of Divorce. The Viking had remained quiet throughout the whole ordeal but chose this moment to share his wisdom.

“So, you’ll just have to go downtown and get the Certificate.”

I had the brilliant idea of calling Stanley because he was already re-married so he must have had a Certificate and he was a whole lot closer than fucking Downtown. Except some asshole Home Invader broke into his and his wife’s house and stole THE FUCKING CERTIFICATE OF DIVORCE!! Who does that?! Sure, they took a lot of other stuff that was much more valuable, both monetary and sentimental, but a Certificate of Divorce?! I have a lot of sympathy for the horribleness of someone invading their house and privacy and safety and I don’t mean to be glib about their losses and emotional devastation but……I NEEDED THAT DOCUMENT!! You asshole! Boom, Baby!

So I went Downtown. And I got my damned Certificate. And we took it to Smarty-Pants at the Registry and got our Marriage License.

Pop Quiz: Did you know that if the smallest, tiniest, puniest thing, like a wrinkle or a stain, happens to that License, it’s null and void? Yes, it’s true. Had I known that, I would have insisted we take separate vehicles so The Viking could be in sole custody of the License where I would have no access to it. The drive home was like transporting Nitroglycerin. It lay across my lap and my hands were placed firmly on the dash.

But then I had an itch on the end of my nose. I tried to ignore it but it just kept getting worse and worse and finally I carefully took one hand from the dash, extended a finger and started moving it toward the itch.

I had to wait in the car when we got back home so he could retrieve the License from my lap and whisk it away to our safe.

And that was the end of planning time. It took quite a while for me to just accept that I did my best and it would have to do. We had the most important things in place and I would have one day after our Honeymoon to get ready for the actual Wedding Day.

Oh! I probably didn’t tell you…..we are taking our Honeymoon before the Wedding because we were taking Erik and Annette to Victoria for 10 days. All the last minute shit required for the Wedding would have to be accomplished in one day when we got back home.

On July 15th we were waiting at the Edmonton International Airport to meet our guests. I was at the mercy of the Gawds. Boom, Baby!

Well, I’m nothing if not adept at biting off more than I can chew so it shouldn’t come as a huge surprise to hear that I’ve done it again. This time I had help though. In the form of a Viking.

We were contentedly watching a movie last week when he suddenly said….

“How much longer do we need to be together before we get married?”

I laughed nervously; the subject of marriage always makes me a bit flinch-y.

Except, last weekend we celebrated our 10th year together. 10 YEARS! Some people might consider that a fairly lengthy engagement but, to be honest, I’m quite happy with the status quo. I don’t need a legal document to prove my love and a Common-Law status is legally almost as good as marriage anyway. You don’t spend 2 decades trying to make a marriage work, fail and then jump right back into the frying pan without at least a little apprehension.

The Viking: I’m not joking. How much longer do you need?

Me: Umm…..well I didn’t really have a specific date in mind – like 2021 or anything.

The Viking: It’s been 10 years already!

Me: I know. I just thought we had decided not to jump in this year.

The Viking: I know you’ve been married before and weren’t willing to make that decision too soon but it’s about time, isn’t it?

Me: I didn’t realize you were in a hurry.

The Viking: Well, I’ve never been married and I would like to get married before I die. To you!Erik and Annette* will be here and this is the only time we can get married when I could have a family member stand up for me.

Well, geez! If he’s going to put it that way…..

And he’s right – as usual. I thought we would get married in Denmark in a few years when we had a little more money, but it would be cheaper to do it here rather than flying my kids all the way to Denmark.

And maybe I should start dealing with my aversion to marriage and anything that even sounds like marriage. The Viking and I have been living and working together for years and years quite happily, so you wouldn’t think that a piece of paper would make any difference. It’s a piece of paper not a liver transplant! Right?

But deep in the back of my head is a voice saying, “Sometimes that piece of legal paper makes a world of difference.” Some people take it as permission to be controlling and over-bearing and jealous; I’ve seen movies! And what if there’s a skeleton in a closet that I haven’t located yet? What if he’s trying on my clothes when I go to the grocery store (not that there’s anything wrong with that if I know about it before I marry it!)? What if he has an entire family concealed in a neighbouring town (even I can see that this is not very likely, but still….)? What if he’s in the Witness Protection Program and mob thugs are going to show up here one day? What if…..

FOR THE LOVE OF GAWD……shut up already! If The Viking were truly like that and managed to fool me for 10 years(!) he deserves a medal of achievement. Besides, he doesn’t have the patience for it. He probably won’t change at all. And don’t you remember you called him an arse-ling just last week and he didn’t lose his shit at all! In fact, he actually smiled! So, maybe marrying him will turn out to be the best thing ever.

Or not. Gawd! My right eye is twitching. Is my eye trying to tell me something? Perhaps it knows something that my brain hasn’t picked up yet. It would be just like me to have a ‘twitchy eye’ instead of a ‘gut feeling’. On the other hand, you have to see something before your brain can do anything about it, so maybe my twitchy eye is ahead of the curve.

And now that I’m thinking about it, why in the hell would he want to marry me in the first place? I’m a mess! A 53 YEAR OLD Mess! It’s exhausting just thinking about all of my faults and weirdiness.

You know, he would really be better off with someone less……..

The Viking: HELLOOO?!

Me: What?

The Viking: I’ve been watching your face. Are you getting close to using words yet?

Me: Oh! Of course I want to marry you! What woman wouldn’t? Are you sure you want to go down this road? You’ll be stuck with me for the rest of your life because once I’m committed that’s it!

The Viking: I know. I wouldn’t have asked you to marry me if I wasn’t prepared to spend the rest of my life with you.

Me: What if I don’t meet expectations?

The Viking: You already don’t meet expectations. Nothing new there. I kind of like that about you.

Me: Really?

The Viking: Why do you think I want to marry you?

Me: You have a concussion? Brain Cancer? You hear dead people? A VooDoo Doctor is making you do it? Blackmail? An evil curse? Selective Alzheimers?

The Viking: Oh, for fucksakes! Are you going to marry me or what?!

Me: Okay, fine! On one condition.

The Viking: Should I even ask?

Me: When I’m in a wheel chair, you will make it the fastest, most powerful wheel chair ever!

The Viking: You might not end up in a wheel chair.

Me:70% chance.

The Viking: If you do, I will.

Me: And you’ll love me forever?

The Viking: I already do. More than you can even imagine.

And then all hell broke loose! I had 10 days to pull this off. I need an Official to do the ceremony, our rings, dishes, flowers, a wedding outfit, a tablecloth, cloth napkins and rings, wine glasses, drink glasses, serving platters, photographer, my Judgement of Divorce (who knows where the hell I stashed that damned thing?!), a marriage license, some place to have the ceremony and a pedicure/manicure. Then there are the Wedding Vows to write.

We aren’t equipped to have a wedding, even an incredibly small one. We only had 7 dinner plates and one of them had an ugly chip in it. No matching wine glasses. If I’m harnessing myself to The Viking for the rest of my life there had better be some matching wine glasses!!

Today, I have exactly 5 days left to find a photographer, get the marriage license and find a nice spot in Bowness Park. Thanks to my Mim, we’ve accomplished a damned miracle getting the other stuff.

I’m kind of tired today but come on in anyway. Coffee is exactly what I need right now. And a cinnamon bun.

So, how’s life treating you? Well, I hope.

Me? I’m fine and would be wonderful if I hadn’t scared the shit out of myself last night.

I was lying in bed with my eye mask on to mute the bedroom light I had kindly left on so The Viking could see what he was doing when he came to bed. As usual I was wandering around in my personal Happy Place. I love it there. It’s a big cave with a hot pool surrounded by crystals that bathe the cave in dancing light. There’s a huge fireplace that magically never burns down to bare embers and a large bed covered in the softest furs created by witchcraft and not by the slaughter of innocent animals.

I built this place to help quiet my mind. I thought this was meditating, but I recently learned that I am meditating all wrong! From what I understand, I’m supposed to imagine rolling a boulder up a hill or imagine my soul is floating above my body or try to empty my mind and think of nothing. None of these things make me particularly sleepy and probably would just piss me off, especially the last one because my mind hates empty spaces so every random thought rushes in and creates beehives of chaos making it impossible to sleep.

So whatever! I don’t care if I’m not meditating within the strict International Meditating Guidelines. Who wrote the dumb rules anyway? Besides, the Meditation Dictators will only know I’m doing it wrong if I tell them and I don’t see any need to consult at the moment.

I also have a forest home where no bugs live, a secluded and deserted beach, and a glass hut on top of a mountain. If building these Happy Places aren’t technically considered ‘meditating’ well who cares? Right?

Okay, where was I? Oh yes, I scared the shit out of myself last night. So while I was lying in my furs, all warm and comfortable and pain-free, this hideous bellow interrupted my peace. It didn’t last long but it was deafening. I shook it off and hastened back to my luxurious nest. But then just moments later there was another horrific grinding sound, like rocks slamming against other rocks! WTF?! And a few minutes later another blaring trumpet followed shortly by a sound like someone sucking the bottom of their milkshake through a straw, only very, very loudly.

“WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT NOISE?!!!” I shouted at the top of my lungs. Whoever is making these noises had better knock it off, tout suite! I suspected it was Mim because she was physically closer to my room than The Viking, who was out in the office. Even though she’s a spawn of my loins I was fully prepared to beat her bloody if she didn’t stop with the noise.

Mim called from the spare room, “I don’t hear anything.”

Then it could only be The Viking but I didn’t want to come right out and accuse him in case the noise was coming from outside the house. “I AM GOING TO SLOWLY ROTISSERIE THE PERSON MAKING THAT NOISE!!”

The Viking arrived in the bedroom. “What’s the matter?”

“SOMEONE IS MAKING GAWD-AWFUL NOISES AND IT’S WAKING ME UP!!”

“I didn’t hear anything.”

“Well someone is making noise and it had better stop because if I have to get out of bed to physically execute the culprit I am going to get cranky!!” All this yelling was totally ruining my Happy Place.

“What kind of noise was it?”

“It was like a grinding….something…..I don’t know! It was just loud!”

Except there was a sneaking suspicion in the back of my mind that I did know what all that noise was. Because I was fully awake and logic was happening now.

“Maybe you were dreaming?” he said reasonably, kindly, sweetly.

I settled back on the mattress and pulled the eye mask into place. “Yes, that’s probably what it was. I was just dreaming.” I rolled over and pulled the covers up to my chin. “Sorry.”

He closed the bedroom door quietly, humming a soft lullaby, while I returned to my cave with the fur bed, the hot pool, the shimmering crystals and the fireplace.

Coffee is on! Come and get it! We all have to share one Doughnut because I ate the others. I didn’t intend to eat all the others, it just happened. You can’t leave fresh doughnuts lying around and not expect me to eat them. The odds are only slightly better than leaving Toffifee unattended around here.

And I have an excuse for eating all the doughnuts – it’s because I’m an idiot.

You know when you think you are fixing one problem but it turns out you’ve only made another problem and the other problem turns out to be a monumentally stupid fuck-up? Yeah? Well, I did that.

The Viking probably wasn’t listening to me when I convinced him to go along with the scheme. He does that quite often – not listening to me – and it’s something he should work on immediately because shit happens when he isn’t paying attention. He stares at his computer screen while I discuss the current problem and he nods and says “uh huh” and then I wrap up my case and he says “uh huh” so I carry out the plan.

Unfortunately, he hasn’t got a bloody clue what ride he’s just agree to and by the time he actually realizes what the ride is he’s halfway across the Grand Canyon on a zip line yelling “WTF?!!”

On this particular occasion, it’s the cats. I see you aren’t shocked that I am having cat problems. You must know me better than I know me and if you had been paying attention you might have saved me from myself. That’s why you only get 1/16th of a doughnut with your coffee – you’ve let me down.

So, here’s what happened. Izzie hasn’t been the most welcoming of cats to her new playmate. For the most part she has adopted an “I hate you but I’m fascinated” stance and slapping happens frequently. We were coming to the realization that she may never be a socialized, normal cat.

But then she deeked us out last night. Teddy was sleeping on one side of my leg as we watched a movie and she came over, lie down on the other side of my leg and put a paw on Teddy’s leg. They slept like that for over an hour! I was over-the-moon happy! Until he woke up and she beat the crap out of him, again. The aggression was particularly bad after that, almost like “I may have slept on you but I still hate you.” Sigh.

I was worried leaving him on his own overnight. You see, we close our bedroom door at night so they have a chance to interact without us being the cause of jealousy. So, we decided to put Teddy in a room where he was safe for the night. But that didn’t seem fair. Why should he be locked up when it’s Izzie being the beast? And here’s where I went wrong.

You already know what I suggested, don’t you? I can hear the collective moans of disgust.

The Viking “uh huh-ed” his way into this arrangement and we moved Teddy’s litter box into our room, brought a water bowl and a food bowl in and supplied him with a couple of toys.

This morning, all hell broke loose. For two hours. By the time I got out of bed, The Viking was wide-eyed and slightly twitchy. “We never should have kept him in the room with us! Izzie is going nuts!”

Well, hell! Realization dawned quite quickly. Crap! I was so busy trying to save Teddy’s bacon that I didn’t think about how Izzie would feel about this betrayal. But, here’s the weird thing. Teddy somehow found a backbone no one was using during the night. And after the first couple of slapping blizzards, Izzie settled down and they are actually playing. Playing!

Have I managed to stumble us all to the base of some turning point? As far as I can tell, I haven’t managed to do a single thing right but Izzie just greeted Teddy with a nose touch and not a single slap. It was so casual, like they were old friends meeting at a pub. I’m not accustomed to such clear successes. My finished products are usual in the line of “We Can Live With It Even Though It Isn’t Perfect” or “Better Luck Next Time”.

Yet, I think I see a light at the end of the long, dark tunnel. Or….it could be Izzie’s Death Stare reflecting in the dark. Who knows?

Hello! Come on in. I’ve got fresh coffee but no Toffifees or any other delectable treats because I’m on the wagon. My sugar intake was getting out of hand and steps had to be taken. However, if you have smuggled something, I’m completely ready to fall off the wagon for a few minutes while no one’s looking. Because I’m weak.

We have to sit in my bedroom because I have a problem. And it’s getting bigger by the day. And it’s all of my own devising. We should be safe here though.

Never let it be said that I always make good decisions. If someone were keeping track, I’m probably only batting 40%. It’s not that I don’t think everything through because I do, and if you asked anyone who knows me, they would add ‘ad nauseam’ to the statement. I think my problems begin when I start thinking that everyone thinks like me despite the mounting evidence to the contrary.

What I would do in any given situation, it turns out, isn’t what most normal people would do.

Don’t ask me why. I think I’m perfectly logical and can critically think my way out of most wet paper bags when necessary.

My newest problem involves an old problem that I thought I found a solution for, but it turns out that I’ve only made the problem bigger. And louder. And more painful.

You see, the adorable, sweet Izzie isn’t actually adorable and sweet. Think Queen of Mean and you’re not far off. One moment she’s lovey and the next she’s got a claw at your Jugular Vein.

We believe it’s because she’s frustrated that we don’t play with her as much as she wants us to play with her – which is every damned waking moment. We play an average of 3 to 4 hours a day with her but that’s not enough because she won’t play by herself. At all. We have all the lastest in Cat Entertainment plus all the Golden Oldies toys and nothing engages her. She needs a playmate. To be certain that was the issue, we tried it out with Mim’s cats and she played wonderfully.

So, on Thursday, The Viking and I went to the Humane Society and adopted another cat. Yes. That’s what we did. And the regrets are piling up. I searched through every SPCA within an hour’s drive of Calgary and finally found an adorable, 10–12 month old cat that had experience with other cats and was calm and chill. We went out to meet him – Kent – and WOW! This little guy came right over to us and climbed on The Viking for loves immediately. We talked to the staff and they all adored him. He was the perfect!

So we brought him home.

And Izzie lost her damned mind!

She couldn’t hiss and spit fast enough, loud enough or long enough to fully articulate her feelings. Honestly, the X-Rated curses and name-calling was enough to curl my hair and my hair is firmly and determinedly straight – just ask my hairdresser. Her future playmate fainted and he’s lived on the streets for several months.

We put poor Kent in the spare room with a litter box, 9156 toys that Izzie won’t play with, food and water and reinforced the door with 6 inches of solid steel.

Imprisoning Kent calmed Izzie slightly but when I went to sit and love her a bit she slapped me 4 times in quick succession. I think it was Morse Code for either

You! Cheated! On! Me!

Or

What! Is! That! Thing?!

Or

Make! It! Go! Away!!

Or

You! Will! Die! Slowly!!

And every single time I touch Kent, I get slapped by Izzie. Hard! I’m not talking ‘love taps’, I’m talking ‘bitch slaps’!

I am only thankful that she isn’t using her claws which indicates that there is a small portion of her soul that hasn’t fully gone to the dark side.

So, there you have it. Kent isn’t sticking up for himself so The Viking and I are rotating cats through seclusions using the spare bedroom and our only bathroom. We communicate via walkie-talkies:

Me: I have The Evil One contained in a sack in the kitchen. It’s a rodeo so you should hurry.

The Viking: Roger! I have The Sweet One and moving to the family room.

Me: Roger…..Wilco….I think. Transferring The Evil One to the Bathroom in 5….4….3….2….1!

The Viking: Has the package been delivered?

Me: The Package is secure.

……..

Me: I probably should have gone pee before we put The Evil One in here. If I’m not out in 4 minutes send help. They should wear armour.

The Viking: For Fucksake!

There isn’t much change today except Izzie only slapped me twice. And Kent isn’t Superman. Apparently. Because he just cowers when she growls. Perhaps he’s too nice. That should never be a problem but when you are dealing with The Queen of Mean you have to stand your ground.

I hope I don’t have to get a third cat to save the second cat from the first cat.

PS: We aren’t sure about Kent’s name. He came in with two other cats – a female and a male – and the staff at the SPCA named them Lois, Clark and Kent. Witty, but I’m not sure I like the name Kent. Kent. Kent. Kent. When The Viking, with his accent, is calling him….it sounds so close to….well, you understand. On the other hand Clark Kent was a bit of a wuss until he became Superman. And it will take Superman to tame Izzie, I’m afraid. But Izzie’s name is Isolde so we thought Tristan was a great name. Maybe I’ll go and make The Viking yell ‘Kent’ over and over to make sure it doesn’t turn ugly…….

Thanks for stopping by. Hopefully we can sit in the kitchen for coffee next time you come.

Thanks, as always, to Part Time Monster for hosting Weekend Coffee Share.

I’m over-extended. I bit off more than I could chew. I’ve procrastinated myself into a maelstrom of missed deadlines. The pressure is on. I don’t have any time. Every distraction puts me further behind.

It’s my own fault, of course – which makes it worse. I can’t even point a finger at someone and holler “IT’S ALL YOUR FAULT!” I can’t even lose my temper because The Viking might list all the time I have wasted in the past 6 months when I could have been working on the projects that I’m now stressing over. I hate it when I think I know what he’s going to say.

Priority One right now is Year End for our business. It’s kind of time sensitive – I can’t put it off for another week because I have invoices for 2017 that have to wait until I’m done 2016. It’s not like it’s difficult, it’s just been neglected into a sweaty, angry mess that I have to untangle and decode before I can end it.

In my defense, I found something I wanted to do more than the things I am supposed to be doing. I can’t be alone in that. Who wouldn’t want to write a blog post instead of entering depreciation of company-owned machines? I took a whole diploma program for business accounting so I could do our books only to discover that I hate accounting. This sort of thing happens to me more than you might imagine. Be that as it may, it’s a chore that has to be done and I’m the only one capable of doing it.

I’ve promised to stay on top of it in the future so I don’t have to spend weeks at the end of the year. Sigh.

Priority Two is the huge project that I took on without knowing exactly how much work it would actually be. I wanted to give my children a story and pictures about where and who they come from. Every kid should know that.

So, I’ve been scanning old pictures; I’ve spent hundreds and hundreds of hours doing it. The book portion of the project is about half finished but I’m not really happy with it so will start from scratch again. It’s all worth it for my kids and grandkids though. Right? And as soon as I’ve finished Year End, this becomes my Number One Priority.

Priority Three is a labour of love. The Viking and I subjected ourselves on Europe for 7 weeks in 2014, from Denmark to Italy to Croatia and back to Denmark. I kept a journal of our adventures and I will expand it and, hopefully, have it published. Trust me that no one has ever taken a European Vacation like The Viking and I did. Seriously.

And now that I’ve written all my priorities down, I can see a hint of New Year’s Resolutions which I had decided not to do because I never take them seriously enough. These might resemble Resolutions but they definitely are not Resolutions. These are……um……hmmm…..well I don’t know what to call these other than Priorities so that’s what they are.

I have a plan. It’s a good plan, a meaty plan that, once accomplished, should make me feel like a Goddess. A Goddess with a Family History and a Tax Return and a Book! If only the Gawds will play along…..

I’m addicted to Toffifee. They are so delicious I just can’t stop eating them! Of all the yummy things I ate over the holidays, it’s the Toffifee that has me in its grasp and I can’t break free. Safeway is enabling me because they are selling them for half price and without even realizing it there are 2 boxes in my shopping cart. I put them in the freezer hoping that I would have more self-control if they could break my teeth but no such luck. I just suck on them until they thaw out and then chew. I am so weak!

We were watching TV the other night and The Viking picked up the tray of delectable confections to try to wedge a stubborn one out of its divot and for a moment I thought he was hoarding them like Golem with his ‘Precious’ and I almost lost it.

Me: “What are you doing?! Why are you holding them like that? They aren’t all yours, you know! You only get 3 rows! 3! And put them between us so you don’t have an unfair advantage. I can’t believe you’re hoarding!”

Him: Holy Fuck!! Take it easy! I was only getting one and it was stuck.”

Me (narrowing my eyes and holding out my hand for the tray): I thought you were taking them away from me.”

Him: I would never do that. I know how much you love them.

Me: ……..

The Viking may need to take steps. Clearly, I can’t be trusted. I told him that after this last box is gone I’m not buying any more. He tucked the Toffifee he was eating into his cheek and said “Good! We have to stop eating all this shit. If you bring any more of it home from the grocery store I’ll smash it to smithereens!”

WHOA!!That sounds like a challenge!

Gawd!! Doesn’t he know me well enough by now to know that he just provoked me?! I’ll start hiding boxes of them around the house so I can sneak eat them when he isn’t looking. I’ll feel horrible about it but I’ll still do it. That’s what happens when I’m challenged because the first thought to enter my mind is: Challenge Accepted! And once I accept a challenge…..well, there is no going back.

Couldn’t he have said something nice like “I know you’re addicted so we’ll go shopping together, in the evening, so I can give you moral support.”? Nope! He had to poke the bear!

It’s because of his Christmas gift and all the Testosterone that came with it. Now he feels justified to be all Viking-y and to throw his weight around.

So, now he has a Shield and a Battle Axe and I don’t. What was I thinking?! You don’t just arm a Viking and then hope he doesn’t use them. Of course he’s going to use them! He’s going to wave them around and chop things and bash things with his shield and he’ll grow a gross beard and put it in braids with beads and bones and he’ll let his eyebrows get all insect-y. He probably won’t answer my questions anymore either; he’ll just grunt and wave his axe at me with one hand and a chunk of meat with the other. On the plus side though, I won’t have to worry about cutting his hair any time soon.

So…..no more Toffifee. I’m feeling the chocolate/caramel/hazelnut withdrawals already. My hands are clammy and shakey and my mouth is dry and I have a twitch in my left shoulder. I suppose he’ll go through my shopping bags like a Doobie Dog at the Airport except he’ll be a Viking in the Kitchen. He’ll probably smell my breath for the slightest hint of Toffifee in case I ate a whole box on the way home from the store.

I’ve created a monster.

Maybe I can steer his axe waving in certain directions, like the Friends of Geesus or another Home Security Alarm salesman when they come up the sidewalk. When you have an armed Viking you don’t usually need a Security System. I may as well get used to it because I’m pretty sure that the manufacturing company won’t let me return them after that email I sent.

If he calls me “Thrall” just once though…….

PS: I miss you already Toffifee. My birthday is in 4 months and we will be together again.

PPS: Here is the email I sent to the company that sold the Battle Axe and Shield when I was worried if it would arrive before Christmas. In case you’re interested.

Hello,

I’m checking on the status of my order. I purchased a Battle Axe and a Shield for my Viking husband on November 22, 2016 as his Christmas gift. I haven’t received a notice that it’s been shipped yet though and now I’m getting a little concerned that it won’t arrive before Christmas Eve.

I don’t know if you know anything about Vikings but they have a tendency to scowl and curse and froth at the mouth a lot when things go off the rails. And, unfortunately, I’m not an actual Shieldmaiden that would have much of a chance in a pitched battle, especially since I could only afford a Battle Axe and Shield for him…..not for me. I’m defenceless here. The best I can do is a Dutch Oven and a large Flipper. I suppose I could put a pot on my head as a helmet but it wouldn’t fit very well.

Also, he has bought me a gift for Christmas but, in all honesty, I can’t possibly open my gift if I don’t have the gifts for him. That will just make Christmas a very sad event for both of us. And Christmas in January isn’t the same at all. Have you ever seen a very sad Viking? That’s worse than seeing an angry, snarling, farting Viking!

Anyway, I’m hoping for good news but if you don’t have that then I’ll settle for bad news as long as I know it well in advance of Christmas so I can let him down gently.